


The Perfect Fit

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, fuck the finale, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:57:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod has nothing to wear for Jenny's wedding. Can Abbie help him find something that will fit?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Fit

“Lieutenant.”

Abbie looked up from her post-case paperwork. Robbery was the driest paperwork of all, and this was dryer than the FBI safety manual, which was really saying something. “What’s up, Crane.”

He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides. His face seemed schooled into an expression of patience but she could read the angst beneath it.

“I find myself in need of your… sartorial assistance.”

 _Now this was interesting._ Abbie swivelled on the kitchen stool to face her fellow Witness fully. “For the wedding?”

Jenny and Joe were to be wed the following week, and the thought of it made Abbie’s heart light with excitement. For herself, she had bought a beautiful full-skirted knee-length dress in a deep pink – dipped demurely at the neck with little capped sleeves. Never one to follow traditional, her sister was eschewing maid of honour and best man roles and getting hitched in a simple registry office, with just twenty guests. Dinner and dancing would be held at a local bar afterwards, with all the food locally sourced.

“Indeed. For the nuptials. I find I have few items suitable.”

Abbie’s heart squeezed at the disappointment on his face. He was paid for his consulting work with the Feds, but precious little compared to the time he spent in the Archives. And Abbie could scarce afford to buy him a new suit as well as feed them both and rent the house. She’d go out right now and buy him new threads if she thought it would paste a smile on to his handsome face.

“Could I take a look?”

“Where exactly?”

“In your closet. Duh.” She sent him a grin. “I used to dress myself for sorority balls _all the time_ on a budget. And by budget, I mean trawling my closet and patching together what little I had.” She thumped the paperwork stack closed and hopped off the stool, pleased to be free for even a short time.

He led her upstairs into his bedroom. The heady scent of soap and sandalwood hit her as he opened the door. A neatly made bed greeted her. The curtains were tied back, letting the May sunlight into the room. The bookshelves above his headboard were crammed with classics. He looked after his space – that much was clear.

The floor, however, was covered in clothes.

“As you can see,” Ichabod muttered, “I have been….. struggling.”

Abbie surveyed the piles on the floor. “Caroline was busy, huh. And…. I see that you kept the bag of clothes I gave you in the cabin that day.” She lifted up a pink and beige striped sweater, holding it up to the light, and grinned.

“I was feeling rather desperate.”

"So I see."

He spared her a glance. "You are permitted to laugh."

She snuck a peek at him. Was it that obvious? She let the giggle escape and put the sweater on the bed. "I can work with this, though. What is it that you're stressing out over?"

He regarded her thoughtfully. "As chagrined as I am to admit this, particularly out loud, it is the thought of being "the re-enactor" yet again among those who are not familiar with my acquaintance."

"Why do you care about that?" Abbie asked, genuinely puzzled. Her partner had foiled complicated plots through espionage. He had infiltrated God knew how many secret societies. He had killed a tree demon almost with his own hands. But this...

"I do wish to acclimatise. And..."

"And?"

He huffed, as if she had forced him into another admission he didn't wish to make. "And, well, this may now seem sudden, but I did not think you would welcome overtures from a gentleman wearing clothes from a bygone era."

" _Overtures?_ " 

"Yes, overtures. You know." He gestured, his blue eyes ablaze. "Courting."

"I know what that means." She was just startled that he'd made the first move, provoked or otherwise. "I didn't think, well, I wasn't sure-"

"Perhaps we could begin by you allowing me to the escort you - formally - to your sister's nuptials. A... date, as it were."

Abbie felt heat creep up her cheeks. "A date."

"Is my terminology incorrect?"

"No. No, it isn't." If he meant to kill her slowly by verbalising the dictionary, he was doing a bang-up job. She touched his arm, felt his muscles bunch under her fingers. "I'd like that. A lot. But if you're going to be my.. date, there's something you need to know."

She watched his face harden just an increment, as if he was protecting himself from the words she'd not yet spoken. 

"Do not hold back, Lieutenant."

"I  _like_ your clothes."

Surprise snapped over his face. "You are quite sure I would not be an embarrassment to you?"

She frowned. "Let me think about all the times you  _don't_ embarrass me. When you jump in front of things that might hurt me. When you kill tree demons. When you decipher ancient code. When you're just  _there_ , by my side. Like I know you'll always be. You've got my back, Crane. And that matters more than anything you wear ever could. Besides." She leaned up to say something just for him. "I like what those trousers do to your legs. And I like seeing the dip in your shirt."

He stiffened against her, and she felt all that Puritan restraint just  _shimmering_ from his every muscle. 

"To be clear," she added, using a favourite phrase of his. "I'd like to dress you for my sister's wedding. And I'd like to  _undress_ you afterwards."

 

\--------&\-------

 

The dove grey tailcoat Caroline had made him paired well with a crisp white shirt, just open a little at the neck, Abbie thought a few days later. His normal breeches suited the look, and boots, of course - but the lack of a cravat, with his short hair, somehow brought the look into the twenty-first century. He'd looked a little quirky, but that was less unusual these days. She'd seen hipsters that looked more out of place than her handsome fellow Witness.

Of course, Abbie thought with a grin, the clothing looked better strewn over the hotel room carpet. And  _he_ looked better beside her in bed, his handsome face relaxed in sleep, his long, lean body more fantasy than reality. She'd imagined he had some moves, and boy, had he shown them to her last night.

She cuddled up next to him, trailing her fingers down his side and over his hip. His eyes opened. Other parts of him stirred, too. Abbie chuckled as he lifted a hand and caught her chin, pulling her face up for a kiss.

"Not tired yet?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You know what we FBI types are like. Evidence based. I'm gathering evidence on the behaviour you exhibit when out of your clothes. I don't have enough to prove any sort of theory yet."

He rolled her over, his body covering hers. He was so solid, hard where she was soft, and she arched under him.

Ichabod smiled against her neck. "I feel certain we can come to an accord."

 

 

 

 


End file.
